


Luxury of the Living

by firearms57



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Everyone Is Gay, M/M, Post Coin, Post season three, Trauma Exploration, andromeda as sera from dragon age, battlemage ethari hell yeah, but its okay because theyre in l oVe E, but mostly runaan, dina projects shamelessly onto her characters, hes so super gay, i would not quite rate this e but, king husbands, kingbandos, ptsd and effects of battle, runaan and ethari as kings, skor as a little shit, so many, the moonshadow assassins survive, there are lots of feelings, there is sex be warned, they get sad sometimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:14:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29598147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firearms57/pseuds/firearms57
Summary: An explorative series of vignettes.
Relationships: Ethari/Runaan (The Dragon Prince)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	1. Alive

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to beautifulterriblequeen for the inspiration for this chapter and to hoothalycon for being a shameless cheerleader

He sees the world through the eyes of a child, taking awe in the commonplace, brought to tears by the sunrise or the graceful V of birds in flight, the sound of rocks on water or his husband at play. The sky is an endless canvas of lapis and chalk, falling in a rush to meet the hallowed middle ground between ancient forest roots and the heavens above, and whenever he finds himself visiting the edges of the grove, he can never quite convince himself to _leave_. How can he? when twilight paints the horizon in strokes of blue and gray, and the sun sets the trees ablaze as it sinks beneath their frothing tapestry of green.

Often, it is long into the night before Ethari can coax him back to bed. He has crafts of his own, of course, and so is not suffering from loneliness at their extended parting, but even still, he seems to understand Runaan’s need for more. His need to _see_ and _feel_ what his mind can, at best, only conjure. He sits with him sometimes, back to back or shoulder to shoulder, and they trace the moon’s rotation across the sky, as stars spin on their axes and the shifting constellations bring with them stories of their own. 

An end comes, always, whether it is in the waking of the dawn, or whether it is soft words and softer touches that can pull a reluctant dreamer from his place of rest. The indoors are stifling in a way they never had been when Runaan was younger, the walls tighter, the ceiling a cage. His bed is too hot, sometimes, and the linens end up sleeping on the floor while he sleeps above, bare save Ethari’s arm over his heart. That embrace, at least, is not suffocating. Ethari’s touch is a bolster, and his warmth comforts rather than chafes.

Their relationship is different, too, but then, they are different people, the both of them. Something has been stripped away, hesitation replaced by surety, pauses swallowed by conviction. They do not bother with verbal checks when there is already so much said through touch. They do not squabble over trifles, nor do they keep silences. Honesty has become their binding vow. Runaan thinks in the quiet of his mind that this hurt has brought them closer than would have been possible otherwise. It is a dark thought, but one he is sure he _needs_ in order to find peace, to be okay with what he’s done — and what’s happened to him.

There is a deep lull in their intimacy. There is no issue with nakedness, nor speaking their minds, yet the fire is muted, dulled by sorrow and a fatigue that drags at the both of them so heavily they can do little but sleep, and hope, and wait. 

Ethari brings life to the little things; he is determined to tear off the cloak of mourning Runaan dons when he wakes, out of his warped sense of duty or the shame that twists his insides to knots or any of the hundred other reasons that pushes him to suffering. 

So they dance. And they eat. And they sing. They force life out of thin air. Ethari leads him to the reflecting pool at moonrise, tells him to strip bare and swim through its icy depths, though it is high winter and it’s snowed just the previous morning. They play hide and seek in their own bedroom. No matter that neither of them have done so since Rayla was a child. Ethari takes to reading him stories, anywhere and everywhere, following him around the Silvergrove while they go about their shopping, book in one hand, basket in the other. Sometimes, if Ethari has picked a raunchier novel, Runaan will stop and clap a hand over his mouth, because they are in public but Ethari _will_ keep going. 

Meals are no longer about eating, grabbing something off the counter so that he doesn’t collapse in the middle of the day. It is about savory, the process, from garden to kitchen, the aroma of cooking oils and fragrant spices, the sheer variety of flavors, the colors, the vibrancy. It is about the time spent together afterwards, face to face across a low table, so that no glance is lost to the ether. The smiles, the enjoyment. The silence. 

He wants more. 

He asks in the night, where the dark can hide his anxiety and the intensity of his expression, his fear. Ethari sees right through him. 

“How do you want me?” He speaks into the flesh beneath his ear, holding him from behind. 

Runaan turns, tilting his head back so that he can meet Ethari’s gaze. “I want all of you,” he says.

Ethari sucks in a breath. “You mean —”

“I mean,” he interrupts, " _everything_. Not just your body, Ethari, _you_. I want to feel alive when you love me. I miss it.” 

“And I miss you, love.” Ethari scoots closer, turning Runaan to face him, and their legs tangle in the sheets, breaths catching on lips. A warm hand slides across his chest and ribs, follows the line of his arm and interlocks their fingers tightly. “But I have no plan on loving you when we can love each other. Together is how we’ve always done things.” 

“I’ve married such perfection,” Runaan breathes, then kisses him, liquid and desperate. His hands rise to catch in silken locks, mussed against the pillows, and when he tugs just a little, Ethari whines against his lips, and then he’s pushing closer, deeper, hands rising to press against Runaan’s own, encouraging him to push, to take. 

Runaan snaps back, fingers curling, and Ethari moans again, louder, more obvious. Runaan looks at him, pupils drawn, and Ethari smiles, guiding his hands down from his hair and to his shoulders. “Live with me, Runaan,” he breathes. “Hear, taste, _feel_.” 

He leans back as he speaks, drawing them flat against the bed, Runaan beneath him, but there is a space between their bodies, an invitation to shift roles. Runaan does not need it. He crumples, fisting a hand in Ethari’s hair and drawing the other to the small of his back, prodding insistently. 

Ethari gives to the pressure, bringing their hips flush, and drops his mouth to Runaan’s neck, nipping and flicking, visceral. They are already bare, and their flesh thaws quickly of the winter chill. The very air warms with their pleasure, and does it perhaps seem thicker now than it did before? 

Ethari’s hand follows the path of his breaths, then curls around his heat, and he jolts, rising halfway off the bed before he regains control of himself. His teeth clench on a groan.

“Let yourself be loud,” Ethari says, still from his place stretched atop him, gaze warm, insistent. “It is a luxury of the living.” 

Runaan shuts his eyes, and he understands. He lets his head drop. His back arches, supine. His lips part. It is better, somehow, than the times he bites his tongue and clenches hard, shoulders drawn and every breath a muffled curse. He lets all of it go, and it could almost be funny, the amount of times he says “fuck” in the span of five minutes, but he’s too far in to care at all.

“Your breath, now,” Ethari murmurs, fingers plucking a rhythm on his chest. “You always control it so finely. Not a hair out of place.” 

“What’s the alternative, Ethari?” Runaan laughs. “Would you rather I keel over halfway through a drill?” 

“There _is_ no drill,” Ethari insists. “It’s just us.” He splays his fingers across his chest, and his hand is so broad it covers most of his chest. “Trust me.” 

“I do,” Runaan says honestly. “I’ll try.”

So he does, falling further into this lull that’s gathered between them, a hazy bubble of pleasure and bliss, and he finds that his chest is moving of its own volition. Breath, people say, is reflexive, yet Runaan has never understood. His lungs are muscles like all the rest of him, but now — 

Now he is an open vessel, spilling and refilling with air thin as liquid, too slippery to catch, and it is so _very_ hard to breathe. Ethari touches him, and he lights up from the inside out, a livewire of sensation. 

“ _F-fuck_ ,” he stammers.

Ethari moans into his ear, presses close, grinds into his thigh and tightens his grip. 

“Fuck, love, you’re so perfect.” His voice is low and tight. “When you open up for me? _Perfect_.” 

Runaan tries to speak, but his words are lost to his pleasure. 

Ethari slows. “What’s that? Speak to me, baby.”

“I said — _ah-h_ — I said, I haven’t opened up for you yet.” 

Ethari snorts, then smiles. “You’re thinking too far ahead. I’m still stuck at the part where I get to watch you fall apart.” 

Runaan is smiling. It is an odd feeling, if for the fact that it is broad and uninhibited, and that even as he wears it, he does not feel inclined to hide his face. He leans up for a kiss, bringing his hand to rest on Ethari’s neck, and there is a traitorous tingling at the corners of his eyes that he will ignore until it becomes more poignant. Ethari meets him with heat, nipping at his lips, and sucks his tongue into his mouth with a thirsty sound. 

His hand, broad and warm, glides along his jaw and rises to fist in his hair. There is but a moment before the sensation becomes painful; Ethari draws his head back and leans down to mouth at his neck. Then he adds his teeth. It is almost too much. 

On the cusp of breaking, he keens, a high, needy sound, a warmth on his cheeks, his chest, his belly, his _heart_. He does not know what to do with it all. He comes, shaking, so dizzy he can’t make the ceiling from the floor. He seizes, body tensing like a bowstring drawn. He wants to draw his arms over his head, curl in on himself. He wants to hide. 

Ethari holds him still and tells him to breathe, so he tries, but his control is messy and his composure in tatters. Still, with effort, he manages to rally an indrawn breath, a valiant victory, which Ethari bolsters with comforting touch. 

A minute passes, and Ethari relaxes his grip. Runaan doesn’t move. 

“Good?” Ethari asks. “How do you feel?”

Runaan’s smile is radiant. “ _Alive._ ”


	2. Fatigue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War takes a toll on its bearers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> angst and soft but happy end?

They are ambushed at dawn. A gaggle of humans, twenty-some in number, thrust their way through the bracken and rush the encampment. They are probably expecting an easy capture, killing the watch and an extra or two before they take the rest under capture. Their intent is not even outwardly malicious; gaunt, in shoddy clothing, weapons crudely cast, they are obviously deserters, neutrals of the war, probably more interested in the grain they carry than the magic in their blood. Unfortunately, they have made two serious errors. First, they have mistaken their class of elf. These are Moonshadows, neither startled by battle prospect nor troubled by the early hour. Indeed, the sun has not yet risen, and the watery light puts them at an advantage. Second, this is a war band, and they have brought their kings in tow. 

Teshav and Yannes shout warnings mere seconds before they are overrun, but that is all they need. They are eight in total, Runaan's six plus himself, and Ethari, and they are all on their feet with weapons drawn in half a moment. Runaan streaks to assist his two at the front, a blur of green and white amid the brown-yellow of winter foliage. Ethari, by contrast, does not move. He plants his feet and tightens his hold on his staff. He will hold the line. Andi and Skor stay behind to defend his flanks and prevent him being surrounded. That leaves four for the main assault. With Runaan to lead them, Ethari has no doubt for their victory.

The humans take a bit more persuading. They drive forward with lean optimism, yet do more to make noise than cause any damage. Still, they are bountiful in number, and it will take a long while to dispatch so many while remaining unscathed. Ethari is a boulder amidst the melee, a solid bolster from which the flightier warriors ping themselves off of. They — and the whole battlefield, in fact — orbit him in waves, enemies seeking to weaken, comrades to take shelter in his strength. Ethari keeps half an eye on Runaan; he is easy to keep track of, his hair snapping behind him like a hissing adder. Runaan fells a man, looks up. Their eyes meet, and they share a wild grin before the moment is consumed in chaos.

Minutes later, they are grappling, numbers against skill, beggars against kings. The humans grow desperate, which makes them sloppy but also dangerous. A tall man breaks through Runaan's defense while he is distracted, and when he circles around behind and raises his dagger, his intention is clear.

"Runaan!" Ethari bellows his name, drops his staff to the ground with a thunderous crack. Lightning arcs across the sky, shining vivacious blue, and drops mightily to the ground one hundred feet away. He cannot strike directly, not in close quarters, not without risking the lives of his comrades, but he can sure as hell scare the living shit out of them. 

The man in question shields his eyes against the burst of the light, drops his dagger and cries out. There is a tightness in Ethari's chest, but he hardens his heart and draws himself forward.

"Runaan!" he calls, and Runaan whirls, swiping viciously.

The man gurgles and falls.

The fight devolves after this. The Moonshadows have lost no warriors, and barely a fourth of the humans are killed before the rest turn tail and flee. 

In the ensuing lull, the Moonshadows assess their wounds, clean their weapons, and burn the dead. Unlike the armies of the dark mage, they hold protocols for the fallen.

Skor sidles over. "That was a pretty light show you put on," he says, and Ethari tilts his chin amusedly.

"Yes. I do like shiny things."

"Scared them good."

Andromeda looks up from where she is crouched over her blade. "Mine shat his pants," she says.

"Enough." Runaan's voice is quiet and sharp as a knife. "We will clean up here and move on. We've made enough noise as it is, and if we hope to cross the border unimpeded, we'd best get out of here before nightfall."

"Yes, Runaan," they say and set to work.

Runaan takes his time, ensuring that they are indeed making themselves efficient, before he comes over to stand beside Ethari, hands tucked at the small of his back. Ethari huffs and shuffles closer, pulls him into the curl of his arms and rests his chin between his horns.

Runaan makes a noise of protest and mumbles something about "not in public."

Ethari pokes him. "Quiet, you. You almost died again."

Runaan laughs. "He says, as though it were uncommon." 

"All the more reason to coddle and covet you."

"Hmm." Runaan hums, but his voice is distracted. His eyes have turned to the forest before him, what minutes ago had been a battlefield, and what is now a mash of trodden foliage and the ashen remains of a funeral pyre.

"Such a pity," he murmurs. "Bands like these are common, now. After Aaravos' rampage, Del Bar is in shambles. So many who fled the fires can no longer support themselves."

"And so turn to thievery." Ethari sighs tiredly. "A sad story, but nothing unheard of in times of war."

"It's been three years," he says softly. "But it feels like it's been my whole life."

"It has been your whole life," Ethari reminds him. "You've been on the border since you were sixteen."

"As was my duty."

Something inside him twists. Ethari has heard the same words from his mouth time and time again, and after two decades, they should not distress him. He should not be bothered. But they do, and he is.

"At times," Runaan continues idly, "I feel like nothing more than a figurehead. A symbol of strength. Do they really need me? Or am I merely filling the position?"

Ethari's brows draw down, and he turns Runaan to face him. 

"You're more than the blades you wield," he says finally. "More than your crown."

Runaan doesn't answer. Shockingly, there are tears in his eyes. 

"I've done so much wrong, Ethari," he whispers. "I try to make it right, but so often, it seems impossible." His grip tightens, and a low, animal groan bleeds from his mouth. "So much sin. I'm drowning in it.

“Once, I went into battle cold. I could slay a dozen and feel nothing. Once —” He draws in a breath, then crumples. “Do you think me weak?”

Ethari's heart breaks in two. "Oh, Runaan. Come here." He drops to the ground and tugs at his arms, but Runaan resists, tossing a look over his shoulder.

"They've moved off to clear the perimeter," Ethari says, still tugging gently. "I wouldn't put your reputation at risk."

Slowly, Runaan allows himself to fall, dropping into Ethari's lap and burying his face in his shoulder. 

Ethari loops him in a tight embrace. "You're right," he says. "They need you strong, and I'll only ever support you. But with me" — he pulls back, brings them nose to nose — "I want you soft.” Ethari's thumb traces his mouth. "Soft," he repeats, quieter. "Like gossamer."

Runaan looks away. "Like glass?" he asks.

Ethari shakes his head. "Glass is brittle. It breaks."

"I  _ did _ break." Runaan jostles Ethari's hands from his shoulders as he sits up, and he throws an angry gesture towards himself "Look at me, Ethari. Can you honestly say I'm the same elf you married?"

"Of course not."

Stung, Runaan looks at him, but nothing about Ethari's posture speaks disappointment. With his hands free, he has leaned back on his palms to better regard him, his eyes open and warm. He almost looks  _ proud _ .

"What…?" he begins faintly, and Ethari understands. 

He smiles, shy and secretive. "And I, Runaan? Am I the same elf you married?"

He is struck, then, by a memory, of a younger Ethari propped beneath him in much the same way he is now. His eyes are wide, bright and excited, and his lips quirked in a grin that says  _ yes, hello, this is me, do you see me? _ He is smaller, perhaps, still in the body of an apprentice, and his horns shorter, thinner at the root. He's caught Runaan off guard with the suddenness of his affection, the strength. Runaan is a tangle of confused knots, anxiety bleeding into want, panic into lust, as he hangs above this perfect paragon of an elf, one who has no such compunctions about expressing his interest. To his inexperienced eye, Ethari seems a bundle of exuberant confidence, yet now, with the wisdom of long years, he can see the fear behind the bravado, recognize the pauses in his speech and the quaver in his voice. 

Ethari was a masterful actor, still is, probably, but he has not felt the need to perform since those first uncertain months. He is content with his insecurities, and honest.

"No," Runaan whispers, "I can't say you are."

"And I'm better for it." Ethari raises a hand to his cheek. "As are you. No longer glass, my love. Something stronger. Something willing to bend."

Runaan leans into his touch. A hand rises to clutch at his wrist. "I had to," he says. "For Rayla."

Ethari nods. "Children make us better. They see what we refuse to and force us to learn."

A hoarse laugh. " 'Force' being the key word there."

Ethari smiles and kisses him, just once and very softly, before he wriggles back and rises to his feet, pulling Runaan up with him. 

There is rustling behind them and approaching chatter, the others making themselves loud so that they don't seem a threat. Skor appears first; he's the quickest. But despite his temper and sometimes ill-appointed commentary, he has a perceptive eye and is quick to notice the depth and intensity of his leaders' interaction. He wisely turns away and bounds through the trees, calling for a recount of their supplies. An obvious distraction, but in Runaan's and Ethari's absence, he makes do in command. 

"Are you ready for them?" Ethari asks. 

Runaan nods, stiffening a touch, still habit, even now, but he rests a hand on Ethari's arm, so he knows he's not pulling away. "Thank you," he says. "For always taking the time to speak with me. And understand me. I don't always believe these things, but sometimes I do. The war…" He hesitates.

"Awakens monsters in us all," Ethari says. "Often stronger than the ones we can strike with our fists." He takes Runaan's hand, and they begin to make for the campsite. "That's why you have family."

Runaan looks up at him, smiles. "That's why I have you." 


End file.
